


I need you (more than you need me)

by bipalium



Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Complicated Relationships, Friendship/Love, M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 12:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18777964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bipalium/pseuds/bipalium
Summary: Without a doubt, his performance was amazing. But there was something detached in those solo gigs, each of them. The audience loved him of course. Wanted him. Worshipped him. But the performance itself seemed to lack something crucial, and it was making Dave angry because he was well aware of what it was.The year is 2003. Depeche Mode is on the verge of collapse. Martin listens to Paper Monsters, Dave listens to Counterfeit².





	I need you (more than you need me)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic in Russian a few months ago and eventually decided it was worth translating. Back then I nearly lost all the data from my hard-drive so this work is extra dear to me.

“Dad, why did you quarrel with uncle Dave?”

Martin took off his glasses and put the Baudelaire tome aside to make room for Ava to sit in his lap. She climbed onto him and, wrapping her arms about his neck, stared at him with demanding eyes.

“We didn’t quarrel, love. Uncle Dave just decided to write his own songs.”

“Then why are his songs so mean?”

Some stereotypes are true, and the one saying you can't hide the truth from a child is probably the most accurate. Martin sighed, hugging his daughter with one arm and picking up a remote with the other one.

“Well, he’s a bit angry with me – a bit. But that’s all right. Wanna watch some ‘Tom&Jerry’?”

Even though Ava nodded and turned her small head at the TV she looked pensive, like her attention wasn’t much focused on the characters running around and scheming against one another on the screen. Or more precisely, it was always Jerry scheming – making up a smart line of obstructions such as an ironing board, an iron, a coil rake, you name it, and Tom stumbled over each of them in a hilarious way, deforming to the condition incompatible with life.

“He’s angry with you because you didn’t want to write songs with him, yeah?”

Martin couldn’t handle that innocent but reproachful look of his own daughter. He chose the book as a shield, but no matter that his eyes were fixed on the lines, very different lyrics were echoing on his mind.    

 

_He's like a King without a crown_

_He wears it like a clown_

_Watch him disappear_

_I wish he would come down_

_So call before you drown_

_I won't always be around_

Martin grinned and stroked Ava’s soft hair.

“Don’t worry. Uncle Dave will be back for sure.”

 

*******

 

Everything had always seemed great to him about New York but the traffic. Dave cursed with feeling, smashing his palm against the steering wheel and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment. He was being late, again. He was fed up with that compulsory monthly therapist attendance that always came to contradict his plans: he needed to get ready for the tour, not to mention he promised Jen to go choose new plates for a special dinner with her parents visiting them. God, it had been years since rehab, was it all that necessary to keep up that farce with therapy?   

Honking at a particularly slow Honda, Dave realized with renewing anger that he didn’t have a chance to pass quickly at the crossroads. He should’ve turned three squares back. With a cigarette hanging out from his mouth, he reached to the stereo and turned on the radio.

The awfully familiar mocking voice greeted him with a wave of coldness from the speakers.

 

_Ah look what they've done to the rock' n 'roll clown_

_Ah rock' n 'roll clown, look he's dead on the ground_

_Well he used to high fly but he crashed out the sky_

_In a Stardust fling, hey rock 'n roll king is down_

 

Rage pulsed in his eyes in circles and Dave hit the off button so harshly his nail turned white. How did that bastard dare to sing something like that? It was so in the style of Martin ‘His Majesty’ Gore, making fun of others behind the safe shield of someone else’s lyrics. Of course, it wasn’t him who was pointing at Dave and laughing: look at him who fucked up! Look who pretended to be a cool rock star and ended up nearly kicking the bucket of overdose and attempted suicide! Look at this pitiful clown! Oh no, they weren’t Martin’s words, he wasn’t involved in this. David Essex was the one to blame, one true villain.

“He’s only playing the angel. I hate his cowardice,” hands locked together, Dave was telling his therapist, Miss Conner, half an hour later. “You’re saying all people have Ego, Super-Ego and Id. But Martin only has one giant, inflated ego.”

Miss Connor was at least good for listening him out without interruptions and arguments, unlike Jennifer.

“Dave, you’re imagining things, it’s not necessarily about you,” she told him kindly, stroking a strand of outgrown hair behind his ear while they were lying in bed in a dim bedside lamp light.

“I swear, he’s laughing at me. When I expressed my demands he didn’t even bat an eyelid. Didn’t say a word. He just turned away and left.”

And that Martin’s fiendish trait had been driving him nuts. He could swallow indifference, hypocrisy – to some extent, he used to be good at handling those. In the past, he and Martin, despite not being on the same wavelength, at least could co-exist within one cosmos. Sometimes it seemed to him that in that cosmos they were one and the same, but reality harshly put him back down on the ground. 

“I love you.”

His hair a mess, barely comprehending his surroundings, not feeling his own body, Dave kneeled in front of Martin and clawed his ankles with his bony fingers.

“You’re the only one who understands me. Damn it, all _Songs of Faith and Devotion_ is my feelings. Mart, I’m so lonely. I love Teresa, but she doesn’t understand why I am like this. Doesn’t understand why I feel so fucking horrible. But you understand.”

Martin sighed and, without moving a muscle, hit him with such an apathetic look that Dave’s guts turned into crushed ice. Something ripped in his stomach – no, it didn’t hurt physically. But the ache in his chest tormented him so ruthlessly like something was trying to break free from it, wringing his ribs open.

“Dave, you’re such a child.”

And that was the only answer Martin dignified him with. He never put effort into making his rare words more comprehensible for those around him. As if it was beyond him to explain himself, to let it out, god damn it, just to be straightforward about what bothered him.

Dave’s memory of Madrid was very vague. Alan was working all days long. Martin was drinking all days long. Dave himself was in the haze of heroine fever, counting the moles on his root-like arms. But he had plenty of memories of Alan running after Martin even before the 90s. How in the back alley of the studio they were fighting until they bled because of the mixing of _Enjoy the Silence_. That was the answer Alan had found to the issue of how to work things out with Martin. And when he found out even that stopped working, he left.

Of course, Alan used to spend far more time with Martin than Dave did. Dave didn’t interfere with their work, because trying to give advice was like placing himself between a rock and a hard place. Neither of them knew a way of surrender. But Dave had always liked Alan. Liked him a lot. He was his guy, sincere, brilliant at hiding his cowardice behind faux arrogance. And with his departure, Dave had to directly confront Martin regarding questions he couldn’t really compete with him in. Had it happened earlier, things would’ve been easier; but Alan, even though despite himself, had already trained Martin in inflexibility and cruelty. And left his wayward pet to Dave.

No, of course Dave didn’t have anything against Alan. Quite the opposite, he felt sorry for being a fucked up freak back in the ’95 who couldn’t even offer a heartfelt talk to his once dear friend. If Dave had listened him out, perhaps the situation would’ve had a different resolve. But nobody was there for Alan back then, for Martin had never been a person who was able to lead a constructive dialogue.

Dave felt awfully lonely back then. Before he met Jen, he had been so sick of that continuous feeling of neglect and uselessness that the only thing he wanted was to die. Sometimes it was hard to get up in mornings, so he lay in bed until his bladder would be pierced with sharp pain. He cried, he shouted, scratched himself and bit his wrists so hard that white marks of teeth would linger on his skin for a while. Nobody was coming. Nobody heard him. Everyone had forgotten about him.

According to Dan, the only words Martin said on the news about Dave’s suicide attempt were ‘Oh, Jesus’. But he instantly arrived at the hospital. Well, ‘instantly’ was only the next day, even though Andy somehow managed to come from London the same evening. Not that Dave cared at the point – he spent 24 hours unconscious and only after waking up and blinking noticed a drowsy Martin curled in a chair in the corner of the room.

“Where am I?”

It took a great effort to speak up so his voice sounded like a hoarse whisper. Martin’s head jerked up, his light eyes wide open. For a moment he stayed in his chair and only then stood up with hesitation. He approached the bed and touched something at the level of his eyes. Dave noted a quivering tube with a needle at its end sunk into the crook of his elbow. And then he saw the bandages on his wrists. Oh, God.

Tears welled up his eyes and veiled the surrounding world with blurry film. But he felt Martin stooping to him and pressing Dave’s head to his chest. His chin was propped to Dave’s forehead and he could feel that treacherous moistness. Warmth was emanating from Martin’s body and Dave didn’t want him to leave. Strange was how the loneliness that had been tearing him apart stabbed the open wound with renewed force, as for that palpable presence of Martin was reminding him of something they didn’t have any more.

Now it all didn’t matter. Now he didn’t need the acknowledgment of the pretentious prick who was doing nothing but wasting his fortune on booze and in the time free from debauchery recording mediocre covers. Dave’s album was much better, much more distinct, accomplished and more personal. Yes, it wasn’t a masterpiece, but Dave never aimed to release a masterpiece. He just wanted to tell the world about his feelings.

“I don’t know, this flowery brim bothers me.”

Jen had been choosing plates for a few hours now, because they had to match the new tablecloth. Dave didn’t really understand what was wrong with the brim – to him the pattern was quite modest and wouldn’t look over the top with the tablecloth's print. Jen was adamant.

“How about those?”

A silver brim resembled the one they had on the wine glasses.

“Not bad, let’s pick these.”

Dave liked that Jennifer always asked for his advice. She was independent, had her own opinion on everything, she could argue with him, support him, tell him what he was wrong about. She loved him, with all his flaws. Before having met her in rehab, Dave didn’t think that somebody could love him again. That he could love again. But a miracle happened. Jen saved him, and he saved her, they found what they were dying without in each other – understanding and acceptance. So he didn’t need any understanding from the notorious despot who thought himself the centre of the universe.    

 

*******

 

Viva was staring at him with resentment and reprimand. Suzanne had been shouting something on the phone and Martin was nodding with a look of aloofness, as if she could see him, and then flipped his phone shut and tossed it somewhere to the corner of the dressing room.

“Dad, don’t do that again.”

He sighed and plopped down the couch with a bottle of non-alcoholic beer – it tasted like piss but he promised his daughters not to drink during the tour.

“Sit down.”

Viva folded her arms across her chest and didn’t move an inch. But she was the only woman with whom Martin wasn’t going to compete in pride, so he walked up to her and hugged her by the shoulders.

“Maybe you’ll want to become a musician one day. What’s a better place for training than your dad’s stage?”

She made a face when he smooched her cheek and petted her silk hair, but her eyes softened. Perhaps he did choose a wrong song to perform with her, but an artist should be ready to sing about the innermost, sometimes dirty, sometimes sick. And not just about his gratitude to his angel of a wife.

Dave was mocking him for sure. It must be said his taunts weren’t any sophisticated, his cannonry weak, gaping holes in the troop’s formation. Back in the 80s it became clear that Dave was no stranger to unnecessary directness. And his directness was shallow, for that less valuable. Hunger and want hardly can be born from overabundance.

The same way Dave was hand-feeding his audience, thrusting out his bare chest they had seen million times before. His lyrics were infirm, mediocre, as if created by a wronged child and not by a grown-up man who had walked through hell and high water. Even more obvious was the fleeting regret in that offence, and Martin felt second-hand embarrassment for the lyrics which flashed with vulgar nakedness, like a bare arse in a cabaret.

 

_Do you remember we were such good friends_

_Now we're back in the ring fighting again_

_The taste that's in my mouth you see_

_It's not very nice screaming at you_

_There's tears in your eyes_

 

Martin listened to _Black and Blue Again_ with attention in his headphones several times. He didn’t turn on Dave’s album in someone else’s presence, not to mention the family, even though Suzanne figured it all out when she heard _Bottle Living_ on the radio.

He was appealing to the past, but what was the past for them? A groundbreaking start, a big drop. They were friends – what a cheap _ad hominem_ argument. Their friendship in the last decade was all about carousing, bummer and shouting in the studio. Dave kept imagining Martin was his savior, oblivious to the fact that Martin had enough on his own plate.

Such good friends, oh well. Despite his wide social circle (that had dramatically decreased after the wild 90s, for Martin learned to be more careful and suspicious), he couldn’t call a close friend anyone but Fletcher, who had walked through such a monstrous procession of betrayals that he’d earned himself The Most Excellent Order of the British Empire for his humility and resolve. God damn it, even Wilder seemed closer to Martin than Dave now. Perhaps if he hadn’t left the band, a sword of Damocles in the form of paper monsters wouldn’t have been looming over it.

Martin didn’t hide to listen to Alan’s records. He didn’t like them. His music was strange, lyrics atrocious, singing style was no good, and Martin turned them on louder on the record player at his home studio while drinking coffee. Sometimes he recollected with a smile how in ’97 _Luscious Apparatus_ caused him a fit of pure rage. Well, maybe he drank a bit too much, but realised that only after having sent a lengthy e-mail to Wilder with a detailed review on deficiency of his product.

The response was hilarious. Martin laughed at it for days after.

 

_‘Dear Mr. Martin Lee Gore,_

_How about you fuck off?_

_Sincerely yours,_

_Alan Charles Wilder,_

_Recoil Boss_

_P.S. Congratulations on finding Home.’_

Back then Dave wouldn’t let him be with questions what was the letter Martin sent to Alan that made him call Dave and go on and on about what a twat Martin was and that he didn’t know shit about music. Martin was very flattered to hear that. But, truth be told, he missed Alan. He missed his sound approach to things and a structured plan of work in the studio. Nor Dave neither Fletch had his stark efficiency.

Unlike Alan, Dave was taking everything personally. And it was unbearable.

“Listen, Mart,” Dave started, fingering the fairy lights that Anton had put around his fur coat with joy of a child on the Christmas Eve. “I know that you don’t like talking about this, but...”

He was wavering, scratching his brow, smiling nervously and totally avoided looking at Martin. So Martin raked his fingers through his hair and heavily landed into a folding chair to have a smoke.

“The song isn’t about you, if that’s what you wanted to ask about.”

He couldn’t stand that habit of Dave’s. He had always liked it in Wilder that he only asked important questions. He could take a hint, he didn’t need answers. Yes, he only cared about the atmosphere of a song, even though he praised Martin’s talent countless times, on camera and off. Evidently, he wanted the same treatment. But he’d never spoken up about it. Dave then, Dave was intolerable in his childish curiosity.

He was worse in the studio. During the recording of _Ultra_ he’d fucked Martin’s brain inside and out with his sloppy advice, as if he knew anything about sampling or mixing or editing. ‘Make this one louder, we should add a filter here, oh listen what I came up with’ – what could he know about it? His expertise was thrusting out his arse on stage so both girls and boys in the front row would faint.

Martin rewound _Black and Blue Again_ to the start, once again cringing at Dave’s monkey play. Begging forgiveness on his knees wasn’t anything Dave could do. He just copied Martin’s established formula, misinterpreting its meaning beyond recognition. But that trumpery didn't belong anywhere, for Dave didn't have a solid pillar in him, didn’t have his own style. He could only copy.

Viva ran out of the dressing room, dragging Ava along – their mother arrived to pick them up. It was good fun spending time with dad, but dad made them sing, and singing was hard. Well, it was all right, they would understand eventually and someday be grateful to him.

Martin eyed the empty room where only Peter was sitting in the corner having a cocktail. It was so unlike the afterparties they had during _Devotional_ tour.   

Not having anything better in mind, he squeezed the MP3 player in his hand and pressed Shuffle.

 

_I'll ask you again but I don't think you've changed_

_You never did nothing for me_

_I wonder sometimes if you're looking down_

_On everything that you see_

 

So childish, and yet every word was punching him in the gut. Even weirder was to hear Dave’s voice on a record instead of that very boisterous laughter of his from the neighboring dressing room. Like any second now he was about to enter with a glass of whiskey in his hand, boldly lean on the doorframe with his signature ‘Well blokes, what are we up to tonight?’ But that Dave didn’t exist in his universe anymore.

 

*******

 

Dave wiped his face with a towel and seated himself in a folding chair. Everyone around was congratulating him with a great gig. The crowd of his New Yorker friends had gathered at the party and each of them clapped his shoulder with a genuine smile.

“You were amazing.” Jen smiled. She was wearing a stunning maxi-dress and the ruby necklace Dave gave her on their anniversary.

Without a doubt, his performance was amazing. But there was something detached in those solo gigs, each of them. The audience loved him of course. Wanted him. Worshipped him. But the performance itself seemed to lack something crucial, and it was making Dave angry because he was well aware of what it was.

He was becoming almost nostalgic about their latest gig in Paris. How Martin stubbornly ignored all his calls. How he responded out of the blue, drilling him with his heavy eyes and moving his hips, and Dave’s insides were exploding with overflowing bliss.

Martin knew which strings to pull. He knew from the very beginning and used this knowledge from the very beginning. Back from the middle of the 80s when he was finally unshackled from a synthesizer, Dave had been trying to excite him, to make him involved. But the unyielding wall around Martin never cracked. Even in Paris when Dave, knowing perfectly well that thousands of people would hear, begged him to get closer, and Martin only stayed for a few moments. But he did stay.

In ’97, having listened to Recoil’s _Unsound Methods_ , Dave phoned Fletch. He was dying to discuss the album with someone, although he didn’t have anything to say about its contents. So he couldn’t really do that with Alan. And, frankly speaking, at the time he was too scared to even mention Alan in an interview or, worse, to hear his own name in his voice.

“It’s a very unique album, successful, but not commercially,” Andy was saying methodically without spitting out his gum. “But it lacks something. I’d say it lacks a soul but that would sound too pompous, not to mention blasphemous.”

Alan had said something similar about their new music, if he remembered correctly. A soul… what was the soul of music? Dave felt content about his songs when he was writing alone or with a company of hired musicians. He loved singing them to the longing crowds. But that entire process was missing the linking thread that used to make Depeche Mode albums so profound. He couldn’t find the words to describe that, he was sure that with Alan’s departure a part of that soul left them forever. And now, separated from Martin and Fletch, Dave realized with reluctance that their parts of the puzzle had vanished from the whole picture too.

Martin’s part was enormous. No, it wasn’t only about his lyrics – Dave knew they couldn’t compete in that – it was about his vision. How his inner state could find its reflection in music. And how Alan was able to catch that reflection in a surface distorted, but he adorned it with new creases that created absolutely inimitable picture. And that was their core. The core broken beyond repair, the shatters of which were scattered around the world.

But Dave was optimistic for he saw his own value in that picture. And he still remembered Martin’s words that terrible night in Chile.

“I can’t write anything that won’t be sung by you,” Martin said quietly, pressing his head to Dave’s shoulder. They both were sitting on the floor with smoldering cigarettes in their hands, a squadron of empty beer bottles circling them.

“What about _Judas_? _One_ _Caress_? _Somebody_? Anything you sing perfectly well without me.”

Martin regarded him with a look that meant ‘you didn’t understand a single word I said’.

“That’s not what it’s all about, Dave. I feel that you are the medium my songs need. Only through you I can express what I feel. You are my voice.”

_You are my voice_. How many times Dave thought back of that night, recollected their vows, Martin’s hands on his chest, his shaky breath on his lips. They were mourning a genius, but at once recognising a genius of their own. And that genius wasn’t Martin Lee Gore, wasn’t Dave Gahan, but the unity, their hot bodies entwined in one, that passion, that energy they were creating as they moved in unison. And Dave felt that their minds – or were those souls? – existed in the same universe, on the same wavelength, in the same space-time continuum.  

But not anymore. Now Martin lived in his other world.

 

_And I don't really want your kiss_

_My thoughts don't make me cry_

_My heart's not filled with grey sadness_

_My ears can't hear you lie_

_And I can't even see your face_

_I've never heard your name_

_My heart is still my thoughts are calm_

_And light has filled this space_

 

Could it really be Martin had forgotten everything? Did he forget how much he needed Dave?

 

*******

 

_I'm asking my friend I need you again_

_Can you do something for me?_

_Time it just passed and we had some laughs_

_Maybe it's just about greed_

_You'll always need me much more_

_Than I need you_

_You'll always need me much more_

_I need you_

 

Seeing Suzanne on the porch of their house, Martin turned off the car stereo. She was with Ava, holding her hand: first she would drive her to school and only then give Martin a lift to the airport. What did Miller need him for anyway?

“When will you get your own license?” Suzanne complained out of habit, starting the engine. Her red mouth was crooked in irritation, but a heartbeat change took turn the moment she looked into the rear view mirror to freshen up her makeup. Irritation suited her.

Kissing Ava goodbye, Martin told his wife to hurry up. The boarding was ending in an hour.

“Don’t treat me like a taxi driver,” she snapped but still drove as fast as the speed limit allowed.

Miller’s call yesterday evening left Martin rather dumbfounded. Usually Dan called when he had plans for a new album, but in the current state of affairs when Martin had just arrived from his solo tour, Andy was busy with his newly opened restaurant in London and Dave – who knew what Dave was doing, Martin didn’t give a damn – a recording was out of question.

“It’s just a business meeting,” Dan explained.

“Then call my secretary.”

Miller grunted.

“No, Martin, not that kind of meeting. Just come here and we’ll discuss it.”

He had a premonition. Not good, not bad; his intuition was just telling him that something was ought to happen today. It had been several weeks since that thought, no, not even a thought but a ready idea that Depeche Mode’s faith had been sealed, came to his mind. And he had been stubbornly closing up in the face of that realisation, even though there clearly was no other way out.

 

_You'll always need me much more_

_I need you_

 

It was hard to accept this reality. They needed each other. Performing without Dave was so senseless. _Counterfeit_ _²_ tour, despite being fairly successful, was ironically dull and didn’t have any of that drive and genuineness that Depeche gigs had always been loved for. It was like functioning without an arm or a leg, like when after Alan left them Martin felt missing some important body part. It felt like fingers – the most splendid weapon of Wilder’s. Now then, even though Martin didn’t have any problems with singing, his vocal cords were in place and quite healthy, he felt like he was missing the voice.

The voice, and a half of his body. Because the voice _was_ that half – Dave Gahan’s voice, the voice of that self-centered twat who didn’t use to leave Martin’s side ever. Not literally, but having lost him Martin understood that Dave’s presence meant much more to him that he would’ve wanted to admit.

Having lost him. Loss. Yes, that was a loss. In a lack of something the need for it always feels so much sharper.

“Mart, you’re so stupid sometimes.”

It was snowing hard, they were faltering in the middle of the road in 1984 Berlin. The Wall separated the real world from the other world like a black curtain. Both of them were drunk and cold.

“I know, no need to remind me.”

He was about to turn away and leave, but Dave’s fingers closed around his elbow so hard it was painful.

“Don’t go.”

He was this simple. Sadness drafted in his eyes, like he was about to cry. His hand wouldn’t let go of Martin’s elbow but its grip weakened. Snowflakes lay softly on his eyelashes, his lower lip trembled.

“Dave, it’s not easy for me to express my feelings. More than that: it’s unbearable. It hurts. I’d rather die than tell someone what’s inside me.”

Because nobody had ever put any effort into understanding him. And the words Martin told him were probably the longest and most detailed explanation he’d offered in his whole life. He expected dumb silence in response, laughter or judgment, but he least expected what happened.

Blinking and sowing the snowflakes onto his cheeks, Dave snuggled up to his chest, hugging him with suddenly big and cozy arms, pressing him closer like someone dear. And then he kissed him. Simply, like nothing else was necessary.

“You have me for that.”

The landing in London wasn’t smooth, but Martin was used to all that shaking. Once he survived in the air hell and from then on had immunity to that sort of menace. The weather was odious, he was drowsy but his heart was beating like a drum in his ribcage, not letting him have a wink of sleep through the whole ride to the studio.   

 

*******

 

Dave had been spinning Miller’s Parker in his sweaty, disgustingly warm fingers for half an hour. The pen was heavy and its weight rooted Dave to a place in a reality – the chill office with an oak desk and giant windows. Behind the window flakes of wet snow were swirling; they flopped against the glass and, like flies killed with a swing, their limp corpses flowed down.

The door opened like from the other world. And from that parallel universe, a man floated into the room. Dave couldn’t recognise him, even though had seen him daily for years, touched his hand, sunk teeth into his lips, caressed his curly hair and had spent half of his life with him. He looked like a sculpture wearing a meat suit (how right Alan was!). His mouth opened but Dave didn’t hear the words, he was deafened and shell-shocked by this estrangement. It must’ve been a day dream.  

“Sit down, will you.” Miller patted the man’s shoulder in a warm and friendly way and he, like a machine operating a command, lowered himself into an armchair on the opposite side of the table from Dave. His eyes shot up. Parker jumped out from Dave’s hand and hit the lacquered surface with reverberant clutter. His fingers went numb. Warm greenness of those eyes washed him over with a wave of intolerable sorrow.

“Hello, Dave.”

“Hello, Martin.”

He was speaking in an alien voice and against his will. His lungs, heart, liver, intestines – everything shrunk up into a clot of ice, madly pulsing in his heavy body.

Miller was talking about something. Something about attorneys. About disbanding Depeche Mode for an indefinite period. God knew what else irrelevant bullshit. Martin was sitting silently and watching a glass of water in front of him with those deep, lively, grieved eyes.

“Mart, we need to talk.”

Dave didn’t notice when he got up. When his hands balled into fists, when a spiky lump formed in his throat. Martin slowly looked up at him.

“Then talk.”

He was short of air. Short of courage. Short of, short of… Yes, he’d lost something extremely vital and now couldn't function like a proper human being. But his body was acting before his brain. Cutting the distance with two broad steps, Dave grabbed Martin’s elbow. Ready to tug, he suddenly felt no resistance. Martin stood up and looked right into his face. His eyelids were a bit swollen, just like in ’84 at some frosty Berlin night. 

Miller was smart enough to leave the office. For a long time Dave and Martin just stood there, eyeing each other like for the first time.

“You’ve lost weight again.” Martin smiled.

“And you’ve gained some. Well, I mean, you look good, I just–”

At this close distance he could see how thin and sparse Martin’s hair was. It was never obvious in his curls, but now when his hair had grown out and was straightened to his shoulders, Dave had a strong urge to touch it. His fingers wavered, but Martin didn’t move an inch. Only lowered his fair eyelashes. Lacing his fingers through the soft strands, Dave caught himself on a thought that the feeling of it was the same. The form was different but it stayed the same, even the smell was the same, like ten years ago. How much hair spray and gel and whatnot he used to use, and how often Dave would stroke and pet it and rake his fingers through it in mornings.

Something stung in his eyes. Catching the air with his mouth, he muttered:

“What can I do so you forgive me?”

A heavy sigh. Martin had never liked expressing himself with words. He raised his hand and Dave imagined that he’d push him away. But his palm softly lay on top of Dave’s knuckles. Their eyes met.

“You can apologize. But only if these won’t be empty words.”

And Dave was apologizing, whispering vows and confessions, embracing him and pressing him to his chest, breathing the dear scent of him, stroking his face and kissing his hands. Martin leaned his head to the crook of his neck, nestling his wet nose against Dave’s skin. The warmth of his body wasn’t the mechanical warmth of a machine; his shaky hands weren’t the hands of a tyrant who gave orders for executions. Martin was just a man.

How wrong he was thinking that it was him who Martin needed, or that Martin was the one he needed. They were magnets, and their gravity was designed by physical law. They couldn’t live without each other like Earth can’t exist without the Moon, like the ocean can’t exist without the sea.

Martin raised his head. His eyes were moist with tears.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Dave.”   


End file.
